The Door That Shouldn’t Exist

Oliver had been living in the same old apartment for years, a quaint, creaky place that held more charm than comfort. He liked the familiarity of it all—its worn wooden floors, its perpetually stuck windows, and the peeling wallpaper with faded rose patterns. It was home. But one night, something changed.

It was past midnight, and Oliver was lying in bed, drifting into sleep when he heard it—a soft, rhythmic tapping. At first, he thought it might be the wind against the window or the neighbor’s dog scratching at the wall. But as the sound persisted, he realized it was coming from somewhere… closer.

Groggy, he got out of bed and followed the noise, his bare feet cold against the floor. The tapping led him down the hall to a section he’d never paid much attention to, a shadowed corner at the end of the corridor. As he approached, he squinted at something that had no reason to be there: a door.

Oliver frowned. He’d lived here for nearly a decade. There had never been a door in that corner.

He reached out and touched the doorknob, his hand trembling. The metal was icy, yet something in him was drawn to it, as if the door were calling him, pulling him closer with each heartbeat. He twisted the knob and pushed it open.

Inside was a small, dark room filled with a cold, musty air that felt ancient. Dust motes floated in the faint moonlight filtering through a tiny, high window. Oliver’s gaze traveled to the floor, where he saw strange symbols carved into the wood, spiraling inward. In the center of the symbols lay a thick, old journal with a cracked leather cover.

Curiosity overtook him, and he stepped inside. Picking up the journal, he flipped it open. The pages were filled with spidery handwriting, detailing strange rituals and symbols he didn’t recognize. The words seemed to twist on the page as he read, drawing him deeper into their meaning, warping his perception.

One entry caught his eye:

"The door exists only in the eyes of those who are lost. Once crossed, the soul is bound. Leave, and you may never return. Stay, and the truth will consume you."

He felt a chill ripple through him, but his eyes kept skimming the pages. He read of people who had crossed thresholds into realms hidden from human sight, worlds within shadows. The writing grew more frantic, describing entities that lurked beyond these doors—beings that fed on fear, on curiosity, on the souls of those who dared to peer too deeply.

A creak jolted him, and he snapped his head up. The door to the hallway had slowly closed behind him. He rushed over to it, turning the handle—but it wouldn’t budge. Panic clawed at him. He yanked and twisted, but it was as if the door was bolted shut from the outside.

As he tried to calm himself, he noticed movement in the far corner of the room. A figure, faint and barely there, hovered just within the shadows—a man with hollow eyes, dressed in the style of another century. He was staring straight at Oliver.

“Who… are you?” Oliver stammered, pressing his back against the door.

The figure didn’t respond. Instead, it raised a bony hand, pointing toward the journal that now lay open on the floor.

Oliver didn’t want to look, but he felt compelled. Slowly, he knelt and picked it up again. As he turned the pages, he found sketches of doors, each slightly different, each with its own symbols. But one illustration caught his breath—it was his apartment, his hallway. The door at the end of the hall was sketched in dark, jagged lines. Beneath the drawing, written in thick ink, was a warning:

"Do not open what was meant to stay shut."

Oliver’s skin prickled. He looked up, and the figure had moved closer, its face twisted in a sorrowful grimace, its eyes empty yet piercing.

The journal dropped from his hands, and suddenly the walls around him began to shift, bending and warping as if the room itself was alive. The symbols on the floor glowed faintly, casting a sickly green light across the space. Shadows danced along the walls, forming grotesque shapes, whispering in voices he couldn’t understand.

A low, guttural voice filled the room, each word dripping with malice. “You opened what was hidden. You saw what was forbidden.”

Oliver stumbled backward, pressing himself against the wall. His mind raced, grasping for any way out, any escape from the nightmare unraveling before him.

Then, the door cracked open—just a sliver. On the other side, he saw his hallway, the faint glow of his bedside lamp casting a welcoming warmth.

Without a second thought, he bolted toward it, flinging the door open and rushing into the hall. But as he stepped through, he felt something claw at his back, a dark, freezing grip that lingered even as he slammed the door shut behind him.

His heart thundered as he stood in his dimly lit hallway. He was back. The mysterious door was gone, as if it had never existed.

Relieved yet shaken, Oliver stumbled to his bedroom, collapsing onto the bed. His hands were cold and trembling, his mind reeling from the horror he’d witnessed. But as he lay there, he heard it again.

A soft, rhythmic tapping. This time, coming from his bedroom closet.

Thank you for reading The Door That Shouldn’t Exist. If you enjoyed this story and felt the thrill of the unknown, please give it a like and share it with friends who love a good scare. But remember… some doors are better left unopened.